


Decisions

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- The list of Will's regrets extends to ever having had anything to do with Ethan Hunt.  Whether this remains the case though is entirely down to Ethan...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Will & self-beta'd.  
> ~ This was actually written back in 2013, so it's... old - and, until I stumbled across it the other day, had just been entirely forgotten about.

========  
Decisions  
by TalithaX  
========

 

I don't want to be one of those people who live a life full of regrets. Knowing all too well how precious life is and how easily it can, without warning, come to an abrupt end, I want to make the most of it. More than anything else, I want, would give anything, really, to be happy. I'm not talking 'sing it from the rooftops' or running around hugging random strangers in the street happy, but I'd like to be both content and be able to say, when my time does eventually come, that at the end of the day I'd lived a good life and had no major regrets.

Right now, however, I feel like my very existence is one regret or fuck-up after another and that I'm stuck in such a Goddamn rut that I can't even begin to imagine a way out of it, let alone see so much as a dull glimmer of light at the end of the very long, and very dark tunnel. 

Regrets. They come in all shapes and sizes. Some change your life forever. Some linger constantly over you while others only reappear to gnaw at you when you're feeling down. Some even are so fleeting as to be a non-event, something simply to write off in the name of experience – like finishing that bottle of scotch when you know you really shouldn't have and spending the following morning on your knees in front of the toilet – and quickly move on from.

I regret not having made more of an effort to visit my mother in the nursing home before she died. I regret wasting so much time on trying to make a go of my relationship with Julian even though, deep down, I knew he was a narcissistic asshole and that nothing was ever going to come of it. I regret not having invested more in property. I regret the crush I had on Professor Bailey at college and how I was too stupid to see his distinct lack of interest until it was too late and I'd made an absolute fool of myself. 

I regret...

… Croatia.

The cold, hard truth – that I was only a pawn in a bigger game – not coming into it at the time, for close to a year Croatia was my biggest regret. It made everything before it seem positively dull and hardly worth the memory, let alone classing it as an actual regret. Until then I'd thought, when the chips were down in the field and I honestly felt as though I was staring the Grim Reaper in the face, that the largest regret of my life would have been choosing to join the IMF as opposed to sticking to my original plan of becoming a diplomat. Any career, after all, that involves the all but constant threat of both pain and near death experiences has to come with it's own line of – 'what the fuck was I thinking?' – regrets. With survival though always came, once the painkillers, alcohol, or sedatives had kicked in, of course, a sense of satisfaction and achievement that made up for all of the doubt and fear and, convinced that I was doing a good job, that I was making a difference, the regret was pushed back aside and once again buried.

With Croatia though there was none of that. No sense of achievement or satisfaction. Just an obliterating sense of failure. My fault. Everything that happened was down to me and me alone. I should have spoken up. I should have listened to my gut – which, in hindsight, was right in that something was up, just, however, not in the way I'd thought – and intervened. The woman's death, my team being placed in harm's way... I could have stopped it. I should have stopped it. But I didn't. I quashed my sixth sense and toed the party line and... paid the consequences. Not only had I failed my team, but the woman's blood was on my hands and I...

I hated myself.

I should have known better. I should have done something. I should have broken protocol and got word to the husband about the hit squad. I shouldn't have been so mindlessly dutiful. I shouldn't have hesitated. 

I shouldn't, seeing as I was obviously incapable of successfully seeing a mission through, have been out in the field in the first place.

Again, what happened was my fault. I couldn't shake the fact that I'd failed and, because of this, an innocent woman had lost her life. 

It was all a lie though, a carefully constructed plan to complete a bigger picture that I was in the dark about. I know that now and accept that, yes, in its own way it was all very logical, thought out and, ultimately, worth it. I don't even blame anyone for the impact it had on me. They weren't to know the effect it would have on me or how it would change my entire life. At the time though, what was first plain old regret turned to doubt and self-loathing and I... gave up. I gave up on field work and would have gone so far as to have given up on IMF period if not for the Secretary himself stepping in and insisting that I give the role of analyst a go.

As decisions go, becoming an analyst isn't something I regret. In fact, I quite liked it. While it lacked the adrenaline rush of being out in the field, it still came with its own sense of achievement and I enjoyed knowing that I was fulfilling a useful role.

Some days though, today being one of them, I regret having accepted the Secretary's offer to accompany him to Moscow. If I hadn't, if I'd accepted the fact there was too much work to do in the office instead of falling for the idea of a quick break and the lure of five-star travel, I never would have come face to face with Ethan Hunt, and...

Everything would be different.

It's like, as far as where I'm concerned anyway, Ethan Hunt and regret simply go hand-in-fucking-hand.

For nearly a year I lived each day with the regret of feeling as though I was responsible for the death of his wife. Then there was Dubai and the fear that, when the launch codes were in the wind, my judgement had failed me again and that I should have stood my ground and insisted he went out with the fake, not real, ones. Jumping, however, despite the sheer terror it installed in me, I didn't regret, and nor did I regret having found myself a part of the team. Although I'd never planned to step foot into the field again, circumstances forced my hand and, thankfully, it all just... worked. I wouldn't go so far as to say I enjoyed it, but we did what we had to do and were able to successfully defeat Cobalt. At the time, still drowning in doubt and guilt, I was on edge merely being in Ethan's presence and lived in constant fear of letting him down yet again, but... Somehow, and I still don't how, we were all able to pull together as a team and make the most of an extremely bad situation and at the end I was proud, all things considered, to be able to say that I'd certainly played my part.

As for whether I regret accepting Ethan's offer to join his team and return to field work, the answer is...

Yes. And, no.

I don't regret having left the safe confines of the office for the all but constant threat to my life that comes part and parcel of being out in the field. Liking working with Jane and Benji, I feel a part of something, something... good, and know that the work we're doing... does... make a difference. I feel, by Jane and Benji at least, respected and derive a degree of satisfaction and accomplishment from knowing they both value my opinion and don't hesitate to come to me for advice. 

What I do regret though, and, again, some days it's far more pronounced than others, is having the larger-than-life presence of Ethan Hunt looming constantly over me. He...

Fuck. I've never met anyone like him. He just... gets under my skin in ways I struggle to make sense of. I admire him. His determination and skills are legendary. Even though I'd never actually met him until Moscow, I knew of him long before Croatia – everyone who has ever had so much as a dealing with IMF has heard of their Number One agent – and always held him up on something of a pedestal. Even if only half of the rumours I'd heard about him were true, he still possessed an almost super-hero aura about him and, until Croatia, I'd always hoped to meet him one day. Then, after Croatia... Well, while I'm not especially proud to admit it, I went out of my way to avoid him. If I knew he was going to be back at HQ I either hid in my office or made sure I had meetings scheduled for off-site. As far as I was concerned I could quite contentedly live out my days without ever having anything to do with him again.

Seeing him climb into the back of the Secretary's car in Moscow was quite literally like being gut punched and at that exact moment in time what felt like the biggest regret of my life was the fact that I was even there.

Ethan is... a force of nature. I get, now that the truth about Croatia is out, on well with him. That is, I get on well with him for the most part. I like to think that we're friends. When things are going well he's fun to be with, and when they're not I know I can rely on him to provide a light in the darkness. He's loyal to the team and IMF, focussed, brilliant, just mad enough to always make his unpredictable streak work in his favour and, quite frankly, a completely amazing human being that I'm proud to know.

He also, however, has the knack, even though I suspect it's inadvertently, of making me feel worthless. Not so much in the sense of work, because I know, even if I mightn't be so quick at thinking outside the box as he is, that my skills are a match for his, but... in other areas. Again, I really don't think he does it intentionally, and maybe I'm either imagining things or being too fucking delicate for my own good, but...

He gets to me. He just does.

I don't, even though part of me says that I should, that if I'd stomped it out then and there I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in now, regret what happened that night in La Paz. It was just one of those clichéd, possibly even inevitable things. Drenched from having been caught in a torrential downpour, high on adrenaline from both the near-miss in terms of being captured and the sheer dumb luck that helped us successfully complete the mission, and having to hole up in a tiny, hovel of a room while we waited for extraction. One thing, in this case I caught Ethan looking at me for a beat too long after I'd stripped off my shirt, led to another and, with no thought to anything other than the here and now, we fell on each other like men possessed. It was sex. Plain, although admittedly somewhat desperate and dirty, sex. Nothing more and nothing less. We were both sore for days afterwards and, the physical side of things at least, was incredible. Absolutely fucking mind blowing.

I could have lived without Ethan's comment at the end though.

“I always knew there was a good reason for wanting you on the team.”

Talk about going above and beyond in terms of ruining the moment. I doubt I would have felt any cheaper if he'd pulled out his wallet and thrown a handful of cash down at me.

Still, so long as I focus solely on the memory of the sex and gloss over Ethan's random, insulting comment, I don't regret that night. It scratched an itch I'd only be lying if I said I hadn't thought about and, if nothing else, it was a pleasurable way to kill time.

What I do – more often than not – regret though is allowing it to happen again.

If I'd held on to my sense of insult and quashed any and all hope of Ethan perhaps seeing... more... in me, I would have told him to fuck off and, regardless of whether it was the only reason he kept me around or not, leave me the hell alone. Only, I didn't. Of course I didn't. Wanting his touch and to lose, however briefly, myself in pleasure, I allowed myself to be caught back up in the moment and, by doing so, no doubt lived up to his far from flattering opinion of me.

I tried to put it down to human nature. No strings attached sex because it was both on offer and spectacular. We were both getting something out of it, it wasn't impacting on our working relationship and... I just had to get with the program and accept in no uncertain terms that, to Ethan, I was little more than a convenient means to an end. Again, it was just sex. Instead of having to always go out in search of it, I was just there, willing, and obviously of enough... interest... to return to.

It was always good, and I told myself that I didn't care that, essentially, I was just allowing him to use me.

It wasn't, after all, as though I honestly ever expected anything different. I was providing a mutually beneficial service, that's all. And, I could live with that. I could. It was always enjoyable, it wasn't as though I didn't know what I was getting myself in for or was feeling pressured into it and, ultimately, be is somewhat cold and clinical of me or not, it was better than nothing.

Sex, to a lot of agents, is simply a form of release and little more. Our chosen career makes us chameleons who have to forever hide our true selves from those we love and, because of this, most choose to remain single. We still have needs though and sex with strangers is one, safe way of fulfilling them. You get the rush and the release without the threat of emotion raising its ugly head and, once done, you go on your merry way. Ethan's a renowned master at it. He's so tightly wound that he has to get rid of the stress somehow and during the fifteen months I've been part of the team I've lost count of the number of times I've seen him slip off into the night in search of just... whatever... it is he needs. Jane's not bad at it herself, but compared to Ethan she's a mere beginner in the anonymous sex stakes. Benji, on the other hand, seems more inclined to wind down with a computer game than to go out on the prowl and, while I'm no shrinking violet and have been there, done that on more occasions than I care to admit to over the years, these days I'm just as content with jerking off in the shower in preference to going to all the fuss and bother of trying to pick someone up.

I'd thought, and I regret this too, this foolish getting of my hopes up, that Ethan had stopped his... nocturnal proclivities and that I was offering him everything he needed. Our... arrangement... might be unspoken, and there's no denying it's always meant more to me than it has to him, but it's nonetheless there and I'd honestly thought that if – and, seriously, why beat around the bush here? It might be far from an ideal and, yeah, okay, I might be stupid enough to long for more, but it is what it is – he had an itch he knew I was always there to scratch it. 

Actually, I'd hoped he knew that I was just... there... for him. Period. That, while I was holding off on my laying my cards on the table for fear of upsetting the delicate status quo, I could be more. Far, far more. I'm more realist than romantic, and the concept of living happily ever after isn't one that I've ever attached much weight to, but... Why couldn't it work, huh? There'd be no need for secret lives, we already know the sex is good, and...

I'm an idiot.

I should have taken his not exactly cryptic comment after the first time to heart and accepted then and there that, work aside, to Ethan I'm pretty much good for one thing only.

Tolerable to work with, and a fairly adequate fuck, but that'd be it. Certainly not good enough to talk to or, I don't know, acknowledge as possibly possessing, God forbid, feelings.

I know that learning of the murder of one of his ex-team mates would have come as a terrible shock. It doesn't matter that they hadn't been on the same team for years as it was still someone he knew, most likely was fond of, and had once worked closely with. The death, especially as it was both gruesome and meant as a 'sign' to IMF, would have hit him hard and, again, I know that. Just as I know that the death of an agent impacts on everyone in the organisation. It doesn't even matter if you've never met the person in question as it's... personal. We all know that what we do is dangerous and that there's a good chance we'll die on the job. Most of the time though we deliberately close ourselves off to it and, if you like, bury our heads in the sand about the constant threat we face.

When one of us is murdered though... The threat suddenly becomes incredibly real again and we start to question our own mortality. Ethan's old team mate was captured and tortured to death on a mission not dissimilar to the one we're in the middle of now... If it can happen to him it can happen to any of us... Did he make a mistake? And, if he did, how can I protect myself from not doing the same thing? Did his team let him down? What could have been done different?

I understand, contrary to his obvious opinion on the matter, Ethan's pain. Regardless of never having met the man, I feel it too. He was one of our own and now he's dead. Granted, I may not be able to reminisce about time spent with him, but that doesn't mean I still can't offer comfort or, if nothing else, a shoulder to blink back tears on. I'm an agent too, and I've lost friends in the field before, so I... do... know what he's going through.

Hurting or not though, he didn't have to react, to lash out, the way that he did as I didn't deserve it.

I just didn't.

We all make mistakes. To err, as the saying goes, is, after all, human. In this instance though, I didn't, unless you count stupidly stating the truth, do anything wrong.

All I did, all I said was... that I understood.

That's all.

And he lost it.

“How can you sit there and say that when you didn't know him? Just... How fucking... dare... you? I... As I need to be with someone who won't even bother... pretending... to know what it is I'm feeling, I'm out of here.”

'I'm out of here' being code, of course, for I'm either going to drink myself into a stupor or find some nameless stranger to fuck before the pressure gets too much in my head and I run the risk of exploding. And, knowing all too well that with alcohol comes the unacceptable risk of possibly losing control, I knew, even as the door slammed behind him and I was left feeling as though I'd been physically slapped, which one would be the winner.

I would have tried to have reasoned with him or attempted to stop him, only... The look on his face, it was so hard and full of contempt that, finding myself coming under his icy gaze simply rendered me incapable of speech. I can remember opening my mouth in anticipation of protesting, but... nothing came out and I could, quite literally, feel myself shrinking back against the wall. It was as though he honestly hated me, that, in his mind, I was playing with his grief for some warped reason known only to myself and he couldn't get away from me quickly enough.

I...

I didn't do anything wrong.

All I did was try to offer comfort to... a friend... and he reacted as though I'd unveiled my 'true' – clearly heinous – self to him.

I just...

I know he's hurting, and that emotions aren't exactly his strong point, but the way he went off at me was just unreasonable. He could have stayed and told me what I'd missed out on by not knowing his friend or even demanded I justify my 'I understand' comment. I would have even passively allowed him to rant at me because grief effects everyone differently and at least it would have still been both a form of 'being there' and a much needed outlet. The same goes for sex. If he'd wanted to lose himself in mindless pleasure I would have gone along with it, I would have done whatever he needed me to.

He didn't have to brush me off – or, in this case, completely slap me down – in preference to reverting to form and finding comfort in the arms of a stranger.

I suppose, if nothing else, I at least now know just how little it is he thinks of me.

Good enough to fuck, but not good enough to talk to.

Given how utterly worthless I feel right now, it's enough to make me regret ever having met him.

That, and God knows I certainly regret not having followed his lead in leaving the motel suite in search of... whatever... instead of just – too shell shocked to think of anything else to do – putting my pyjamas on and retreating to bed as, that way, I wouldn't be in the proverbial sitting duck position I'm in now.

If I'd gone out I could have avoided Ethan until the morning. I may even have found something, or perhaps someone, to take my mind off the huge fucking mess that is my life. But, no. Seeing as I may as well add stupid and, hey, while I'm at it, useless to worthless, I stayed put and now, not even two hours on, I have Ethan looming over the bed while I struggle to decide just what the hell it is I should do.

The thought of playing dead, that is, ignoring him completely appeals if for no other reason than I'm simply not in the mood to deal with him – or, for that matter, anything – at the moment. Patience not exactly being his forte, he'll either give up staring at me after a few minutes and stalk off, or...

He'll shake me awake and, one way or another, we'll have at it anyway. And... just what 'it' may be is anyone's guess. Perhaps, although I very much doubt it, he'll want to talk. Failing that, maybe he wants to pick up where he left off and is wanting to deliver a lecture to me on my 'insensitivity'. Or then there's the most likely scenario – again, realist, remember? – of him still feeling horny and just wanting to shove his cock somewhere.

And...

I can't do it.

I can't do any of it.

Whether I'm over reacting or being unreasonable or whatever, his outright dismissal hurt me and I'm not up to dealing with him at the moment.

So... Knowing that there's probably a snow flake's chance in hell of him simply turning around and leaving of his own volition, I'm going to jump the gun and go on the defensive. It may not be the greatest plan I've ever had, but nor can I just lie here all night with him staring at me.

Taking a deep breath, I sit up, switch the bedside lamp on and, folding my arms across my chest, glower at Ethan as he leans against the wall by the door. He looks tired, possibly even the most worn out and exhausted I've ever seen him but, hardening my heart and remembering that look of loathing on his face when he stormed out of the suite earlier, I tell myself that I don't care.

“Don't tell me pickings were slim and you've had to come back here with your tail between your legs,” I mutter, scowling as he gazes back at me with an unreadable expression on his pale face. “I mean, if that's the case, you're... slipping.”

“Believe it or not there was some sort of model show on at the local gay bar,” Ethan replies in a decidedly neutral tone of voice that – has to be said matches his neutral expression perfectly – makes it hard for me to know whether he's being facetious or nor. “So, no. Pickings weren't slim at all.”

“Just discerning, then,” I retort, acid all but literally dripping off my tongue. “Again, if you failed in your pursuit of someone more... understanding... to fuck, you really are slipping.”

“Who said anything about failing?” Shrugging, Ethan tilts his head back and gazes up at the ceiling. “Seeing as you're obviously interested, I didn't fail at all and, for what it's worth, he really was a particularly glorious specimen, too.”

Specimen. Lovely. Is that why he's here then, to rub my nose in it? 

“Then why are you standing here in my bedroom?” I query flatly as my damn heart begins to beat a dull tattoo in my chest. Why me? I don't want to be doing this now. I just want to be left in peace and hopefully, if I'm lucky, get some sleep. Tomorrow, after all, being a new day and all that. But, again, no. He's invading my space which means I have to arc up and play verbal games with him. Seriously, as bad days go I'm beginning to wonder if this one is ever going to end.

“If he was so fucking...glorious... why aren't you still out there fucking him then?” I add, switching effortlessly over to sounding querulous when it becomes clear that my question was too much of a brain teaser for Ethan to answer. “Just... Fuck off, Ethan. I'm not in the mood.”

“I...” Shaking his head, he glances over at me and I'm shocked by the unfamiliar look of, if I'm not mistaken, anguish on his face. “I couldn't...”

“Couldn't?” I snort and, not wanting to lower my defences and let his obvious pain get to me, make a point of casting a fleeting glance at his groin. “Doesn't sound like you. What's the matter, huh?”

“I just couldn't,” Ethan whispers, his expression giving nothing away and making me think that my... slur... has simply gone straight through to the keeper. “My... My heart wasn't in it.”

“Since when has your heart ever come into it?” I snap, pushing my back further up along the bedhead and tightening my arms across my chest. “Hell, I'm not even sure you have a Goddamn heart, Ethan. You...” Okay. That's it. He's done it this time. “You've got a fucking nerve, you really do. Just... Get out. You mightn't think I understand and, you know what, you're right. I don't understand you at all and, while I'm at it, I don't want anything to do with you either, so... Go. Just fuck off!”

“I...” Pushing away from the wall, Ethan takes a tentative step towards the bed and gives me a beseeching look. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs faintly. “You're right to be pissed off with me and I just want you to know that I'm sorry, that... I'm an insensitive moron who should have kept his stupid fucking mouth shut. I... Will...” 

“Sorry?” I echo, the disbelief I'm feeling at his very much unexpected apology coming through loud and clear in my somewhat breathless sounding voice. “You're... sorry? You... You slapped me down when all I was doing was trying to help and now, after not getting your way with some stranger, you're... sorry? Dear God, Ethan, forgive me for not knowing what the hell to think here...”

“I just...” Sighing, he takes a seat on the foot of the mattress and runs his fingers through his hair. “I was wrong, and I know now that I hurt you, and even if it's too late and you've finally come to see me for the asshole that I really am, I just want you to know that I'm sorry, that... Of course you understand. I... I don't know what I was thinking. All I could think of was Harry's death and I lashed out at you because you were just... there, and... I'm sorry. It was stupid, wrong, and rude of me and you didn't deserve it.”

“Damn right I didn't deserve it,” I mutter as, no clearer on things now than I was when I sat up, I lower my arms and shrug. “And, at the risk of setting you off again, I... do... understand. Just because I didn't know Harry doesn't mean I don't know what it's like to lose a friend or... how losing an agent makes us all feel.”

Nodding, Ethan sighs again and, resting his hands flat on the mattress, turns his head to better face me. “It reminds us of our mortality,” he replies dully. “When one of us falls it reminds us that any one of us can, and... I... At the risk of stating the fucking obvious, it's not one of those things I like being reminded of very much. It... poses questions that I try not to think about and...”

“It can also highlight that life is very much for the living,” I interrupt with another shrug. “I get the unwanted reality check an unexpected death brings, I do, and whether you believe it or not I'm feeling it, the fleeting mortality thing, too, but... Well, it also brings home how brief life is and how it's far too short to live a life forever consumed by doubt and regrets. But, whatever... I'm still not entirely sure I even want to be talking to you at the moment.”

“Let me have it,” Ethan states, looking me directly in the eye. “Whatever you want to say to me, Will, just let me have it. It's fair, after all, to say I'll deserve it a hell of a lot more than what I hit you with earlier. So... Just go for it.”

Taken aback by his open invitation to vent at him, I frown and, not really knowing what to say, shake my head. “I think I've already said all that I want to say,” I murmur. “Besides, it's not like it's going to change anything or make me feel any better. I... I know where I stand with you now and... uh... what's done is done.”

“That's just it, you don't know where you stand with me,” Ethan responds as, his expression suddenly brightening, he shifts further up the bed. “I know it can't undo the damage, but let me tell you what I was thinking when I... lashed out at you.”

“There's no need,” I mutter with another shake of my head. “I've got a pretty good idea already and hearing it from you isn't going...”

“Again, that's just it,” Ethan interrupts, “you don't. You obviously think that you do, but you don't, you... can't.”

“Fine.” Refolding my arms across my chest, I look at Ethan expectantly and wait for him to... blow me away with whatever his confession is going to be. “Go on, then. I'm waiting.”

Taking a deep breath, Ethan closes his eyes for a few seconds before opening them and once again looking directly at me. “The news of Harry's death hit me pretty hard,” he states quietly. “Although it had been close to four years since I'd last worked with him, I always counted him as a friend and he was both a good agent and a good man to know. The thing is though, as sad as I was about his death all I could really think about was... uh... how glad I was that I wasn't having to deal with the news of... your... death because... Oh God, Will... I know I have no right to so much as think, let alone... say... this, especially not after the way I've treated you, but I... I just can't bear the thought of losing you...”

“I...” Fuck. Where on earth did... that... come from? I mean, I've been lying here regretting just about every dealing I've ever had with Ethan Hunt and he's been... Freaking out over having an epiphany over his feelings for me? If it wasn't so serious I'd laugh at the irony of it all.

Hardening my heart and refusing to get my hopes up because I'm not sure I could cope with having them beaten back into submission again, I narrow my eyes and glare at Ethan. “Aaaw... And there I was thinking I was nothing more than a fuck to you,” I drawl.

“And...” Looking away, Ethan lowers his head and gazes down at his hands as they rest limply on his lap. “That's all I ever wanted you to be,” he whispers, sighing. “You were there and you were convenient and we always had fun, but... That's all it was meant to be...”

“Stop. The warm fuzzies, I don't think I can take any more,” I mutter, wondering if Ethan's intentionally digging himself into a bigger hole or whether he's just so far out of his depth that he honestly doesn't know what it is he's doing. Either way, what I am fairly confident of though is that he's being... genuine, that what he's saying is actually the truth.

And... Yeah. To call me surprised doesn't even begin to cover it.

“I thought it was for the best, for both of us,” Ethan continues, pressing on as though I hadn't even spoken. “I suck at relationships to the point of someone always getting hurt and... what we had was... easy. Easy and... safe...” Trailing off, he glances over at me and dredges up a wan smile. “Only... I was wrong and I know that now. You're worth more than that and, yes, you deserve more. You deserve better than what I've, a fucking idiot who wouldn't know a good thing if it bit him on the ass and who has, I suspect, from the very beginning been unintentionally hurting you with his insensitive mouth and actions, been giving you, and... Uh... While I'll understand perfectly if you tell me to fuck off and want nothing more to do with me, I just want you to know that I'm sorry it's taken me so long to wake up to how... incredibly important you are to me and how unbelievably... stupid and selfish I've been...”

“Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say it was unbelievable. In fact, knowing you it's quite believable indeed,” I murmur as, my resolve faltering in the face of Ethan's clearly heartfelt confession, I unfold my arms and rest my hands on my thighs. “You... Just, shit, Ethan. What do you want me to say, huh? I believe you, and I can see how Harry's death would have brought on this... epiphany, but... It's just a lot for me to take in, you know... You... You mean a lot to me too, more than I ever wanted you to, but.. Look. I can't deny that you really have hurt me, and I... I just don't know what to say...”

“Then maybe it's for the best if you don't say anything,” Ethan responds, giving me a sad, resigned look as he stands up and makes to walk towards the door. “Not now, anyway. It was unfair of me to come in here and put you on the spot like this, and... I should just go and leave you in peace. Whether I've covered it very well or not, and I doubt that I have, you hopefully have a better idea of how much you mean to me now and... uh... Having done enough damage for one night I think I'll just go now...”

Stunned by just how much I suddenly don't want Ethan to leave, I sit up straight and, without pausing to give in to either doubt or possibly even common sense, blurt out, “Stay. Just... Stay the night and sleep with me.” Pausing, I throw back the bedding and pat the mattress next to me. More needs to be said, but Ethan's right and now isn't really the time. We're both tired, slightly strung out, and the conversation that needs to be had requires our undivided attention. It can also wait. Not indefinitely, granted, but until the morning at least. “I'm not offering what you didn't get from your... model, but I am willing to let you sleep with me because I... I don't want you to go.”

“Are you sure?” Ethan queries hesitantly as he slowly turns back around to face me. “I don't want to put you out or...”

“I wouldn't have made the offer if I didn't mean it,” I state, cutting him off as I glance pointedly at the empty side of the bed. “I... Contrary to your opinion on the subject, I do actually both know and understand you, Ethan, and I don't want things to end like this, not before they've had a chance to experience a proper start. But... It's your choice. Demonstrate you're willing to take a chance with me or... Just go. Leave now and forget about it.”

My piece said, I turn the lamp off, slide down the bed and rest my head on the pillow. Will I regret my decision to both accept Ethan's... epiphany... about his feelings towards me and give him another chance? The answer, of course, is... possibly. I'll never know though if I don't take the risk and, as Ethan climbs into bed and immediately draws me against him for a warm, undeniably comforting embrace, I know that, whatever the outcome may be in due course, it has to be worth it.

After all, what's life without a few risks?

~ end ~


End file.
